13 posts tagged “poem”
One evening
a little yellow
approaching
green
Swooped
in.Roosts
on a blue.
"Never seen you here before,"
purple drawls, reinvents a
register
in
the
key
of magenta.
"Now let's see..."
"what we can
see," cerulean
mutters, meanders past
red.
I wanted you to have something waiting for you in case you checked.
We just had a wonderful tuck-in and are now in Paris, France.
We have a window on the Left Bank and a large bath.
We have hot chocolate croissants and two cafe au lait.
I would kiss you now but your mouth is full of chocolate croissant.
I am admiring the polaroids of us lounging in bed.
Here you are wearing my underwear on your head.
And here you are reading Men in the Off Hours naked.
Remember when I painted you nude in the Hotel Stratford?
You were so willing and lipstick appeared on an unlikely spot in the painting.
I've decided to write a poem about our time on the Left Bank and this is it.
Do you suppose it was the inspector in the mystery we just finished?
Paris is full of mysteries, just as you are full of mysteries...
I am full of L'Occitane lavender lotion slathered liberally over my body.
I am awaiting spontaneous enlightenment from my guru.
You are no cold potato, zipping up, I see you.
You are no dirty locomotive, you are a sunflower, Sunflower.
I wanted you to have something fabulous superterrific in case you checked.
And so I've written these lines for you, L'Amour, sweetheart.
Just as Stendhal said, 20 lines a day, genius or not.
Self Portrait
No lay off from this condensery.--Lorine Niedecker
Peach floor, pale yellow walls
art teacher sits patiently
waiting for end of hour.
Be here in mundane space
or fly away imaginary--I fly
away, smoke a Rothman or
Galoises on the Seine.
Sky's cloudy grey back in art room
pictures of van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso.
My self portrait in colored pencil, cartoonlike,
stares back.
Lips funny shaped, nose nonexistent
eyes electric blue, cheeks rosy--
she wears fuzzy fuschia sweater
hair pulled up in ponytail.
She is me at 29, compassionate
wanting to succeed, she is shy--
I mean I, I drew this image
I am the I of this portrait.
I woke this morning morning's mistress
In gentle wonder spring addressed
Spring in glory, spring a-gallop—
O sing of spring and live and dance!
The trees move with us and the greening
Ever rolling hills come calling
High there, beyond beyond the earthy red—
Ecstasy! We swing out, we surrender
As a cloud's puff smooths out and over: light and free
We cannot grasp it. My heart and head try to hold it--
The hiding thriving mystery!
Sage verbage and cerebral art, pride, act, and pomp, here
Break! And the breath that emanates from spring then, infinitely
Lovelier and more vigorous, more airy than contained.
No doubt about it: sheer air we breathe the breath of
Spring, and orange-pink twinkles in the grass
Grow, shore themselves, and burst gold-vermillion.
|
Painting by Joan Mitchell
|
I am emotionally translucent.
I am on the new sofa. I am wedged
between the 2 walls of the stoop. I am
unwashed & I'm self-conscious about it.
I am not helping. I make her feel like
she's eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.
And now she's slid back into a green sleep
in early Autumn and she will escape
out the back. If only the universe
weren't shaped so much like me, I might change
my approach. I must learn to say what I
never intended to say, like John Clare.
The good news is I saw the open door
of gentle wonder, where I want to live.
--Matthew Rohrer
Uploaded on August 1, 2007
by Pavlunka
A LITTLE CALLED KINGA
She lives as she lives and she lives and she is
And she is as and she is and as she is
She is wholly whole she is holy whole she is holy
And she and she and and she
She quotes quotable she lives fairly lives fairly well
And she loves all is all love is loved and loves well
She came by him by hum by human she came by
And she will as she will by will as she will
She flew up and flew by and flew out and over it
And she came by train as train has trains what was trains
She knew knowing too and knowing knowing who
And she what was she and she what was she she was she
She knew a little called Pauline a little called Pauline a little
And she wrote writing writ written she finished her poem.
Uploaded on May 9, 2007
by Elif Sanem Karakoc
"Because she arrives,
vibrant,
over and over
again; we
are at the beginning
of a new history,
or rather a process
of becoming
in which several
histories
intersect with
one another.
As a subject for
history, woman
always occurs
simultaneously
in several places.
(In woman,
personal history
blends together
with the history
of all women,
as well as national
and world history.)"
--Helene Cixous, quoted in Bhanu Kapil's
The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers
Uploaded on August 23, 2007
by robynne faye
WORLD'S BLISS
Alice Notley
The men & women sang & played
they sleep by singing, what
shall I say of the most
poignant on earth the most glamorous
loneliest sought after people
those poets wholly beautiful
desolate aureate, death is a
powerful instinctive emotion--
but who would be released from
a silver skeleton? gems
& drinking cups--This
skull is Helen--who would not
be released from the
Book of Knowledge? Why
should a maiden lie on a moor
for seven nights & a day? And
he is a maiden, he is & she
on the grass the flower the spray
where they lie eating primroses
grown crazy with sorrow & all
the beauties of old--oh each poet's a
beautiful human girl who must die.
Uploaded on December 18, 2007
by Fukuda.
Helpless, as blue roses are helpless
He ransacks the room for a glass vase
How much longer shall I be able to inhabit the divine?
Where ants push closed their soft brown doors
Beauty longs to swim naked, languidly
He grabs the keys to his car
His black R Series Volvo
The black-sky landscape hung on the wall
My hair a portrait of deshabillement
He is integral to the portrait, cool
They go to the theatre: Pierre le fou
He finds amethysts for her fingers
Saturated reddish-blue
Wed to wakefulness, they go
Into the thin air of the show
You are awake. A lovely song
Is playing in your ear
The Unicorn waits in state
Not a bad exposure
Ants push closed their soft brown doors
She murmurs
Writes a portrait
Of abalone shells
And each sleeping sister
Wishes to be free of ill humor
Mother discusses politics
Leda was nothing like Pandora
She dreams of swimming naked
Languidly
My Groups
-
pop life Updated: 6 minutes ago
-
The Thinking Woman Updated: 9 minutes ago
-
Creative People Updated: 44 minutes ago
Neighborhood
Explore friends, family, friends & family, or entire neighborhood.
